Stronger
by thedayyoufindoutwhy
Summary: Dan gets attacked and fights back. Phil is there to help him through the aftermath. Violence warnings. Phan from the get go.
1. Chapter 1

"Hey, Phil?" I call from the kitchen.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you?"

"Living room." I snatch my keys from the counter top and walk towards the sound of Phil's voice. I lean in the doorway, smiling fondly at my boyfriend, who is currently hunched over his laptop working on something.

"I'm running to the store to get foodstuff. Want anything?" He doesn't say anything for a second, his eyes hungrily reading something.

"I'm good thanks," he mutters distractedly. I smile at him, taking in the little furrow between his eyebrows and the concentrated way he bites his lip, smiling at the knowledge that he is mine. I flip my keys in my hands, then head towards the door. "Aren't you forgetting something?" Phil calls after me. I peak my head into the doorway.

"What?"

Phil smiles at me. "A goodbye kiss." The pout on his lips makes it impossible for me to say no. I walk over to him a place a chaste kiss against his lips. When this isn't enough for him, he grabs onto the collar of my shirt and deepens it. "Better," he moans. I sigh against his lips. "Don't leave me for too long," he says, pulling away from me.

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," I reply, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of his head before leaving.

**0.0.0**

I love London. Don't get me wrong, there's definitely plenty to hate. The prices, for one. And the never ending stream of tourists always serves to get on my nerves.

But there's an energy to the city that is addictive and for that I love it completely. This night is perfect, a bit cold, but ideal for walking in. The streetlights and buildings provide the perfect amount of light for me to see where I'm going and the streets are busy like they always are. I feel this strange camaraderie with my fellow Londoners. Plus, I know that Phil is waiting for me at home which is reason enough to be happy.

I round a corner, hugging the buildings like I usually do in the hopes of avoiding bumping into people, as I always somehow manage to do. I hate having to explain to innocent pedestrians why they've taken an unexpected elbow to the boob. The half-disgusted, half-bitchy look that crosses a person's face after I've accidentally—that being the key word here—bumped into them is my absolute least favorite thing about London.

Without warning, a hand wraps around my bicep and I'm pulled into an alleyway.

"What the—" A hand comes over my mouth, muffling my words.

"You would do best not to make a sound, boy," a distinctly male voice mutters in my ear. I struggle against him, trying to figure out what's happened because I have no fucking idea what's going on.

The man tightens his grip on my arm, bending it at the elbow and wrenching it sharply behind my back. I instinctively bend forward, but his left forearm is pinning me to his chest, rendering me immobile. I feel a wall of muscle pressed against my back, and I know that whoever he is, he's strong. The man pushes me forward and I have no choice but to oblige.

We round a corner and he slams me against the wall, effectively knocking the wind out of me. The scruff of his facial hair is like sandpaper against my cheek as he leans forward to breathe into my ear. I feel his erection against my thigh.

I know what's going to happen.

"Not a sound, boy. Or you will regret it." He replaces his hand with his mouth, pressing his dirty lips against mine. He breaks contact only to pull my shirt from my body, using his hips to pin me in place. I try to struggle but I can't even draw a breath. He uses the cloth as a gag, forcing me to draw in what little breath I can through my nose. The rough of the brick wall behind me cuts into the skin of my back. He starts to work on my belt.

The buildings surrounding us are uninhabited. The alley is long and dark enough that the chances of anyone noticing what's happening are slim to none. Phil won't even begin to worry about me for at least another hour, which is far too late to be of help. I'm completely alone. Which gives me two choices.

Give in. Or fight.

My attacker begins to slide my pants off my hips. It becomes exceedingly more difficult not to notice how hard his fingers are digging into the skin of my thighs. I focus calmly on breathing. Don't let him suspect anything. When his fingers hook into my boxers and I absolutely can't take it for another single second, I swing my left fist at him, catching him in the jaw. He staggers backwards.

I open my mouth to let my shirt fall to the ground then quickly pull up my jeans, fastening them just enough so I'll have use of my legs. He looks up at me, wiping blood from his mouth, and sends a right hook at my eye. I stumble backwards, hitting the back of my head against the brick wall. Almost immediately I feel a warm trickle of blood run down my neck.

I start to sink to the ground, half-dizzy, half hoping that he'll think I've passed out and leave. Instead he straddles my prone body. I groan in pain. There's a shuffle as he slides out of his pants. I am absolutely terrified. My opportunities for escape are slowly slipping through my fingers. I can practically feel time running out.

With the strength of my panic backing me up, I swing my fist at his face. The strength behind the hit forces him to roll off of me.

"You son of a bitch," he growls. I roll quickly to my feet, staggering as the world spins violently around me, then kick him savagely in the balls. He curls into himself. I kick him again, as he grunts in pain. And again. And again. Until he is half conscious and bleeding on the pavement. He looks up at me gasping and coughing and as much as I want to kill him, I can't.

"If you _ever _touch me, or anyone else, again, I will kill you."

"Is that a threat?" the man asks, laughing. I inventory his face, taking in his most prominent for when I'll have to identify him for the police. As an answer, I kick him once more in the head. He blacks out.

I grab my shirt off the ground and pull it over my head, then fasten the belt of my pants. I stagger towards the light of the streets, scraping the back of my hand against my lips to wipe off the taste of him. But it's still there. Thick and sour and ashy.

I bend at the waist as my body works desperately to purge itself of this man, heaving again and again until there is nothing left in me. I spit onto the asphalt, disgusted with the taste in my mouth and the phantom feeling of his hands on my body.

Shakily I stagger onto the streets, back into the warm glow of the streetlights. Passers-by give me wary glances, like I was the perpetrator here instead of the victim. I pull my phone out of my pocket, taking half a second to marvel that it wasn't destroyed in the struggle, and call the London police.

"Hi. My name is Daniel Howell. I'd like to report an attack…"


	2. Chapter 2

**Phil's P.O.V**

At the sound of the front door clicking open, I shut my laptop and stretch, waiting for Dan to come upstairs with the groceries.

"Took you long enough!" I call down jokingly. There's the soft pad of feet up the carpeted stairs before he walks into the living room. I freeze. My eyes lock on the blood trailing down his neck and pooling at the collar of his shirt.

"Do you know if we have a first aid kit?" he asks me, holding his bare hand to the back of his head. After getting over the shock of so much red against his tan skinned and the palpable scent of iron in the air, I notice the bruising around his eye and the cut in his lip. His clothes are twisted and rumpled and hang awkwardly on his body. Worst of all, his chocolate eyes are empty. Completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. It's what I've always imagined the eyes of the dead to look like.

"What the hell happened?" I ask, walking over to my boyfriend. I grab onto his shoulders. He jerks himself away from me, his brown eyes flickering before returning neutral. He's trying to hide it from me, but I can see just how shaken he is. He's throwing up walls, trying desperately to block me out, as some ridiculous sort of defense mechanism.

"Did you make any ice?" Dan asks, ignoring my question and turning his back on me to head to the kitchen. The way he's walking betrays his shaky limbs. There's a trail of dirty footprints leading up to the hallway, fading the higher they get. Sure enough, Dan's boots are still firmly fastened on his feet. Dan always takes off his shoes. He knows I hate it when people wear shoes in the house.

I follow him into the kitchen, watching as he rummages through the freezer. He takes out a tray of ice and throws it rather violently onto the counter. I pass him a kitchen towel which he takes from me without a word. He makes an ice compress and holds it to the back of his head. His eyes dart around the room, taking in everything, but saying nothing. When I can no longer stand the silence, I leave to find bandages.

Our bathroom is disturbingly lacking in anything helpful. The best I can come up with is wet wipes, colored band-aids and cotton balls. I balance everything in my arms and head back to the kitchen. Dan's standing with his back to me, one hand holding the compress to his skull, the other drumming furiously against the counter.

"Let me see?" I ask softly. He turns towards me, as though startled by the sound of my voice, then lets his hand fall from the back of his head. It immediately starts oozing blood. I lift his hand back up to reapply pressure, then grab his elbow and lead him to the table. He sits quietly as I begin to clean him up.

I gently wipe the blood from his face using the wet wipes, hoping whatever's in them will kill any bacteria. Silently, I catalogue his injuries, taking inventory of every cut and bruise, before moving to the wound on the back of his head.

"You might need stitches," I tell him softly, trying and failing to locate the source of the bleeding. All I can tell is that it must be somewhere under the lump of matted hair. "We should go to A&E."

"I just want to sleep," he mutters, returning the kitchen towel to the back of his head.

"I know, sweetheart, but you should really see a doctor."

He shakes his head softly. "If I go to the hospital, I'll need to talk to the police again."

"Wha—again?!" I cut off my enquiries. It's pretty clear that he doesn't particularly want to talk about what's happened to him. I bite back my curiosity and place my hands on his shoulders, squeezing them gently, trying to lend him silent support. He doesn't say anything, but I didn't really expect him to. "Then I'm going to run to the store and get some—"

"No." I flinch, surprised at his sudden and strong response. "Don't leave, Phil. Please don't leave."

"I'll only be gone for a minute—" He turns around and pulls me down so that I'm kneeling beside him. His free hand lands on my cheek, rendering me silent as he gently rubs his thumb over my cheek bone. The softness in his touch contrasts violently with the fear and desperation hidden in the brown depths of his eyes.

"Can I at least ask the neighbors if they have anything?" I ask him softly. I know the woman three doors down is a nurse, so she might be able to help. His eyes search mine, and he seems content with whatever he finds there as he nods softly and lets me go. I stand up, pausing on the way to gently kiss his lips, but he shies away from me. Before I have a chance to show him how much that hurt, I leave.

I have yet to change today, so when an elderly woman—I think her name is Jay—who I've only talked to a handful of times opens her door to see me, clad in rumpled Pokémon pajama bottoms and one of Dan's old shirts, it's no surprise she looks stricken.

"Can I help you, dear?" she asks, her eyebrows shooting up so high it looks like they're trying to hide in her grey fringe. She's wearing a lilac blouse and matching pants hanging loosely over her broad frame. She's always reminded me of one of those super huggable grandmother types, and that in itself is a comfort to me.

"Yes. Um, my boyfriend—uh, he's hurt. And I'm not really sure what to do and we don't have anything in our flat and I think I remember you saying you're a nurse…" I say, trailing off.

"Yes, yes, of course." She opens the door wider as an invitation for me to come in. "What kind of hurt is he?" she asks as she hurries into what I assume is her bathroom.

"He's uh—he's bleeding a lot," I say, shifting awkwardly.

"You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that." I can hear her rifling around in her cabinets.

"His head—the back of his head, that is—is bleeding. And he's bruised and scared and not himself." I flash a quick glance around her apartment, taking in her life story from the pictures on her wall. I see she has a son and two daughters, and they're all grown up now. She has a husband too, and what looks like a wonderful, happy life. That's what I want with Dan.

"How on earth did that happen?" she asks, emerging from her bathroom with a hefty looking first aid kit.

"I'm not sure, really. He just—he came home that way. He was supposed to be getting milk and he—he's bleeding really bad and I'm scared—" I stop when my voice breaks. This isn't about me. This isn't about me at all. She shuffles over to me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"I won't let anything happen to him." Something about the tone of her voice comforts me and I let out a breath. "Now show me the way to your young man." With her hand resting lightly on my shoulder, I lead her to mine and Dan's apartment. Our apartment is messy; clothes and games and wires all tossed haphazardly onto every available space of carpet. Nobody's come over recently, so we've had no reason to tidy up. Thankfully, our guest doesn't say anything about it.

"Dan? I'm back," I call out, peaking my head into the kitchen. He's still sitting where I left him, his hand clasped to the back of his head as he stares blankly at the wall. He turns towards the sound of my voice, his eyes resting on my face, before turning towards the woman at my back. She tuts quietly and shuffles over to Dan, dropping her bag on the table.

"You poor boy," she mutters, sliding on a pair of latex gloves from out of her bag. "My name is Jay Wilkes," she says softly, as she starts to unpack. Dan eyes her uneasily. I walk over to him and interlace our fingers, his sticky with blood. He squeezes onto my fingers, but doesn't say anything. "Let's look at your head," she says, moving to stand behind him. She places her hand carefully over his left, pulling it away so she can look at the wound. "What's your name, sweetheart?" she asks. I note his hands shaking, now that he no longer has control over the situation.

"Dan," he mumbles.

"Alright, Dan. It looks like you've hit your head against something. Can you tell me how that happened?" Dan whimpers. Dan actually whimpers. He looks like he's about to start crying, but he's managing to hold himself together. "It's alright. You don't have to say anything," Mrs. Wilkes says, snatching a gauze pad off the table and placing it against Dan's head. "Do you feel dizzy or nauseas?"

"No," Dan whispers.

"How about tired?"

"A bit." She tuts some more as she pushes his hair away to get a better look at the injury.

"Well, the bleeding looks like it's just about stopped, but you should still see a doctor." His entire body starts shaking and his face goes white.

"I'll get him a blanket," I say, hurrying out of the room to fetch the comforter off of my bed. It's quite clear that he's afraid, not cold, but I need to do something other than standing there like an idiot. I move quickly, not wanting to let him alone for too long. His eyes flicker gratefully up to me as I wrap the duvet around his shoulders.

"Do you mind fetching a towel and some warm, soapy water?" Mrs. Wilkes asks, her hand still clamped to the back of Dan's head. She starts muttering something to him as I walk to the bathroom to fill her request. With a small bucket filled with sloshing, soapy water in one hand and a ragged towel in the other, I head back to the kitchen. "And some clean clothes?" she asks, as I drop the bucket and towel on the table. I make a beeline for my bedroom and grab one of my t-shirts, a sweatshirt, and his old maroon sweatpants, then I'm right back at Dan's side. Mrs. Wilkes is cleaning the blood out of Dan's hair, careful to avoid the cut.

"Can you clean up his hair while I check the bruising?" she asks, referring to the slight purpling around Dan's eye. I nod, taking the towel from her hand. My fingers run gently over his scalp as I work clumps of dried blood out of his brown hair, careful to avoid the jagged wound at the back of his skull. The gauze is only barely pink with his blood, which I take to be a good sign. I feel him wince as Mrs. Wilkes cleans his face with antiseptic. The two of us work quietly over Dan, silently washing all the signs of violence from his face.

"Let me take another look at that head wound," she mutters, walking back around Dan to stand beside me. "Good, good," she says. "This might sting a bit," she says as she very carefully pulls the gauze away. Only a thin trickle of blood oozes out. Mrs. Wilkes replaces the old gauze with a new one, coated with some antiseptic ointment. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" she asks in her soft voice.

"I don't think so," Dan says, sounding a little more normal.

"I recommend you change into some clean clothes and get some sleep." Her voice is steady and authoritative. "I'll be around in the morning to check on you, if that's alright. And if anything happens during the night, don't you dare hesitate to call on me," she says, shoving her things into the first aid kit she brought with her, sans a couple wads of gauze and some antiseptic that she says she's leaving here in case we need them.

"Thank you," Dan says, standing rather suddenly and wrapping his tall frame around her short body. She lets out a startled sound before returning his embrace.

"It's quite alright." She pulls gently away from his tight grip, but keeps a hold on his arms. "You really should see doctor," she says, admonishingly. Dan nods sheepishly, and drops her gaze. "You get some rest now, you hear?" Dan nods again, a shadow of his usual smile lighting his face.

"Let me walk you to your door," I say, grabbing her bag. I catch Dan sitting back down as we leave, his head resting in his hands. I can't help but think he looks defeated.


	3. Chapter 3

"Dan?" I call out, as I re-enter the apartment.

"In here," he shouts from the kitchen. I walk in on him struggling to pull his shirt over his head without reopening his wound.

"You could have waited for me," I tell him, walking over to help tug the collar of his filthy shirt over his head. There are some minor scrapes along his back, not deep enough to bleed, but enough to make me worry. "Are you alright, Dan?" I ask him. I didn't realize how stupid the question sounded until the words were out of my mouth. I gently trail my finger tips over his back, getting a little thrill at the way he shivers under my touch. He stands still for a moment before taking a step away to grab the clean shirt I got for him earlier. He pushes his arms through the appropriate holes and turns to me to help him with the head. Once that's on, we repeat the same procedure with the sweatshirt.

"Can you turn away?" he asks.

"What?"

"Can you turn away while I'm changing?" he asks again.

"Dan—?"

"Please, Phil." I look at him, shocked, before respecting his request. It's not like I haven't seen him naked before. Far from it, actually. I listen to the sound of Dan slipping out of his boots, followed by the faint rustle of denim over bare skin. He pulls on the sweatpants and stands there silently for a minute before finally saying, "you can turn around now." His eyes are locked on my face. They look apologetic and scared. I want to pull him into my arms but I'm afraid that he'll pull away.

"You should get to bed," I say softly, grabbing the duvet off of the chair. He nods and yawns. I carefully drape the blanket over his shoulder and lead him to our room, which used to be mine before we decided to start sharing a bed. He stops outside of his own door, staring down at his feet.

"Phil? Do you mind if—I mean—can I be alone tonight?" he asks. I clear my throat in surprise.

"Yeah—yeah, of course," I say, trying to hide how much that stings.

"Thanks," he whispers, leaning forward to brush a kiss against my cheek before disappearing into his room. I head into our room, and grab a pair of pants and a shirt from his side of the closet before disappearing into the bathroom for a shower. Maybe the sound of running water will hide my muffled sobs.

I shower quickly, eager to go to sleep and leave this miserable day behind. Before heading to our bed, I peak my head into Dan's door to check on him. His back is turned towards me, shoulders rising and falling gently. The white of the gauze contrasts starkly with his dark hair, serving as a reminder of what's happened, but he appears to be alright.

As I've acquired Dan's sleep schedule and it's only 11, falling asleep is a task easier said than done. I'm stuck in that sort of limbo where I'm exhausted, but I can't fall asleep. At around midnight, as I'm staring blankly up at the ceiling, I hear a muffled sound coming from the room next to mine. It's Dan. And he's—it sounds like he's crying. That—that _twat_ actually waited until he thought I'd fallen asleep before breaking down.

I can't take it. It only takes a second to decide that, despite what he says, Dan does not want to be alone. Without knocking, I slip into his room.

"Phil?" he whispers brokenly. I slide onto the bed beside him and tug him into my arms, gently resting his head against my chest. "What are you doing?" he whispers, his voice hoarse with unshed tears. I press a kiss to the crown of his head and hold him tighter against me. His fingers twist in the fabric of my t-shirt. His breathing becomes shallower and I can tell he's using everything in his power to keep from crying.

"It's alright," I whisper, gently cupping his head with my hand. "Everything is going to be alright." Without warning, his body is trembling in my arms. He gasps against my chest, the tears streaming from his eyes, staining my shirt. He twists his body impossibly close to me, closing any distance between us. I don't know what to say to this broken Dan, so I don't say anything. I can only hope that he reads the tightness of my arms around his body as a promise to never leave him. That he knows that the kiss that is pressed to his forehead is a silent I love you. That he can see that even if it takes me the rest of my life, I will make sure he is okay again.

It takes a long time, but eventually Dan stops crying and falls asleep. The tangy scent of iron blood, left over from his head wound, sneaks into my senses and poisons my dreams with death.


	4. Chapter 4

I wake up before Dan, like I usually do, caught in that beautiful limbo between dream and reality where it's impossible to distinguish between the two. The feel of thick fabric instead of bare skin destroys the illusion. Normally, at this point, I'd roll out of bed and grab something to eat, but today, I can't. Dan looks so—so fragile with his face buried in my chest, letting me hold him like he so rarely allows. He likes to be the strong one; the unbreakable one.

He mumbles something and wriggles his body tighter against my side, letting out a faint sigh. I run my fingers through the hair at his temple, just a whisper against his skin, rejoicing as his lips twitch up in a smile. I live and die for moments like this one.

I'm called out of bed by a light rapping at the door. Carefully, I slide out from under Dan, stopping to pull the covers up around his shoulders to keep him warm before hurrying down the stairs.

"Morning," I say with a yawn, letting Mrs. Wilkes in.

"Did I wake you up?" she asks, shuffling past me.

"Not really," I say rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "Can I make you some tea?" I ask her.

"Coffee would be nice, if you have any," she says, leading the way up the stairs. "Forty-three years working night shifts, I've developed an addiction to the stuff!" She takes a seat at the table, dropping the bag down in front of her, as I brew the first pot of the morning.

"Dan's still asleep, but he should be up soon," I say. It's almost as though he heard my words, because a few minutes later, Dan is stumbling into the kitchen, straight towards the coffee maker.

"There he is," Mrs. Wilkes says, patting the chair in between her and me for Dan to sit in.

"Morning," he says groggily, his hands wrapped around the warm mug. He lets his forehead slide against the table and lets out a breath.

"Sleep well?" I ask, forcing my eyes to avoid the red-stained gauze at the back of his head. He mumbles something unintelligible under his breath, lifting his head to take a big gulp of liquid caffeine before setting his head back on the hard maple tabletop.

"Let me take a look at that head of yours," Mrs. Wilkes says, pushing herself to her feet. "No-no! Don't move! You're so tall, it's better if you keep your head down." She pulls more gauze and antiseptic from her bag and tends to Dan's wounds, tutting as she works. "You look better than you did last night, but I would still like you to see a doctor," she says, smoothing the fresh gauze onto Dan's head with careful, skilled fingers. She finishes up and sits back down to finish her drink.

"Thank you," Dan says, sitting up and downing the rest of his coffee in one quick swallow. "I'm going to go take a shower," he says.

"You can't," she calls after him, "unless you want your head to start bleeding again." Dan stops and turns toward her. "St. Thomas' is a couple blocks from here. You'll be in and out before dinner." Dan rubs nervously at the skin on his arm, hard enough to leave streaks of red, before nodding and leaving the room.

"I best go," Mrs. Wilkes says. I offer to walk her back to her flat, and she graciously accepts, mumbling something about young boys and chivalry that I don't really get, but I'm pretty sure it's a compliment.

"Thank you, again. I really do appreciate everything you've done for him," I say outside of her door.

"You take care of him. He's been through something rough, and he's going to need you." Before I can say anything, she flashes me a little smile and closes the door in my face. I head back to my apartment, where Dan is sitting at the foot of the stairs, fully dressed, waiting for me with a pile of clothes on his lap. He tosses it to me, flashing a smile as it bounces off my chest and falls to the floor.

"I want to get this done as quickly as possible," he says calmly.

"Can I at least shower?" I ask, moving to head past him. His arm shoots out to stop me.

"If I can't neither can you." I look down at him and roll my eyes. I change quickly, trying to ignore the fact that Dan doesn't watch me like he normally would, but keeps his eyes fixed on the tiled ground. I want to ask him what put that dead look in his eyes.

"Done," I say, giving my t-shirt one final tug to straighten it out. He looks up with a smile and slides into a pair of trainers. As we leave the apartment, his hand finds mine. His palms are sweaty and cold, and the grip he has on my hand is fierce. "Are you alright?" I ask him, hitting the call button for the elevator. He doesn't bother to respond, letting his tight-lipped, jaw-clenched expression do the talking. I rub my thumb soothingly over his knuckle.

As soon as we hit the street, his anxiety multiplies ten-fold. His breathing comes in ragged gasps. He holds my hand in a vice like grip, pulling me closer to him so our arms are pressed together; shoulder to fingertips.

"We can go back," I tell him, watching as his eyes flicker down every hidden alleyway; feel his muscles tense as we round every corner.

"Let's just get there," he says under his breath. The farther we go, the faster he walks. I struggle to keep up with him as he weaves through foot-traffic, occasionally pushing people out of the way. Once the front doors of St. Thomas' A&E come into view, he practically starts sprinting. We push loudly through the doors, giving everyone in the waiting room a start. He leans against the wall, lets go of my hand and sinks, gasping for air, to the floor.

"I'll get a nurse," I say. Before I can move a muscle, his hand circles my wrist.

"Don't. Leave. Me," he begs. Fear. That is all I can see written on the planes of Dan's face. Pure, untainted fear. I can practically smell it on his skin. My heart sinks.

"I won't," I whisper, falling to my knees beside him and grabbing his hands in mine. "I promise." His head falls forward so his forehead is resting against mine. "Can we get some help!?" I shout out into the relatively empty room. Footsteps rapidly approach us. I keep my gaze locked on Dan, refusing to let him feel alone. A team of nurses suddenly surround us and help Dan to his feet. They bring him immediately into a room, making the decision that his apparent panic attack puts him at greater risk than the three other people sitting in A&E at 11 in the morning. A nurse shoves a clipboard and a pen at me and asks me to take a place in the waiting room.

"I can't leave him," I tell her, glancing over her shoulder to see them pulling Dan into a room.

"Standard protocol, sir. The doctor's will let you in soon enough." The young, blonde nurse talks to me like you would talk to a child. I don't know what exactly is happening right now and I don't know why Dan is freaking out as badly as he is and I don't know how the hell I'm going to help or what we're going to do when we get home or how we're going to get home or how any of this horrible mess is going to get fixed. It seems that the only thing I do know is I can't leave him.

"You've got to let me see him."

"I'm afraid it's against protocol," her voice is even. I hate her.

"This has got to be some kind of exception."

"Protocol is very clear, sir." I legitimately hate her.

"You don't understand," I say, shoving the clipboard back at her. "I told him I wouldn't leave him. The last time I left him, he came back to me bleeding and I _promised_—" I break off, becoming aware of the way my voice is breaking. "I can't leave him. Please don't make me." I'm aware of how terribly desperate I sound, but I can't bring myself to care.

"I'm sorry sir, but pro—"

"I swear to _God_ if you say _protocol_—"

"I'm sorry, but it's just not—"

"Goddamn it!" I scream, grabbing the clipboard out of her hands and throwing it with all my strength at the wall. I don't realize what I've done until I see that she's started backing away from me. I never get violent. I never thought I could. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stagger backwards until my back makes contact with the wall. "I'm sorry," I tell her, brushing tears out of my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to alleviate the headache that's been building.

Slowly, I pick the clipboard up off the ground, collect all the scattered pages and take a seat in the waiting room to fill it out.

Seconds pass like hours.

I hate everything about the past 24-hours.

I am so tired.

That stupid blonde nurse keeps flashing me skittish glances from behind the front desk.

A few minutes later, a different nurse comes from the main wing of A&E, flashing me a soft smile.

"You can see your—partner now, sir," this new nurse says, gently taking the clipboard from my iron grasp. I follow her silently down the short hallway and into Dan's room. He's wearing an oxygen mask and has an IV drip in, but other than that he looks normal.

"Hi," he says, reaching a hand out to me. I move quickly to his bedside and interlock our fingers.

"Hi." He slips the oxygen mask down around his neck.

"I heard your, um—tantrum," he says, flashing me an echo of his usual smile. At least he's trying.

"Yeah. Sorry about that," I say, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

"Do you really blame yourself?" He draws patterns on the back of my hand with his fingertips.

I nod. "You shouldn't have been alone," I mutter, closing my eyes against the wave of emotions. "I should have been there."

"I went out by myself hundreds of times and nothing happened before. You had no reason to expect anything different." He brushes his thumb over my cheek, wiping away the tears I hadn't noticed were building. "You're not allowed to blame yourself. I forbid it."

"Well if that's the case…" He matches my smile, brushing his thumb over the ridge of my cheekbone. I press my lips against his temple, telling him without words that everything is going to be alright.

I clear my throat and ask, "What did the doctors say?"

"They're going to staple my head," he says, his voice perfectly monotone. My eyebrows shoot up.

"Excuse me?" He grins at my reaction, not a real Dan smile, but it's getting there.

"It's not that uncommon. Staples won't rip out like stitches will." He drops his hand from my face and leans backwards, his eyes flickering shut.

"I see," I say, smoothing his fringe back off his forehead.

"They also say I'm concussed, so you'll have to be careful with me." I feel a smile flicker across my face ad press a soft kiss to his cheek.

"When am I ever not careful?" I ask, brushing my fingertips over his face and down his sensitive neck as if to prove it. He tries to cover the way he shivers under my touch with an overly dramatic eye-roll. It's so normal it hurts.

The next hour and a half passes relatively easily. The doctor comes in with a sleek looking device that definitely does not look capable of stapling Dan's head back together. He numbs and cleans the wound, pops some metal into his skull, tells Dan to take it easy, then releases him.

I hail a cab for us to take back home. We usually take subways, buses or walk, as any other mode of transportation is astronomically expensive, but just the thought of Dan shaking in a heap on the ground makes me want to vomit, so a cab it is.

Dan gets home okay. The only sign that he has any anxiety at all is the firm grip he has on my hand. Other than that, his breathing and color are fairly normal. The cabbie drops us off right in front of our apartment. I quickly pay him and usher Dan into the building.

As soon as we make it into the front door of our flat, I see Dan visibly relax. He rushes upstairs, to take a shower and asks me to make us some hot chocolate. I finish before I hear the water turn off and head to the living room to put on an episode of Doctor Who for us to watch. He pads quietly into the room a few minutes later, his hair damp from the shower, and takes a seat at my side. He holds the hot chocolate firmly in his hands, making sure to leave only the tiniest of gaps between us.

After the first episode he's lying down with his head in my lap. I run my fingers through his hair, careful to avoid the newly placed staples.

After the second episode, I'm lying down in front of him, his arm draped carelessly around my waist. I can feel his soft breaths against the back of my neck.

After the third episode, we're both asleep.

I wake up some time later thanks to the grumbling in my stomach and the fact that it feels unnatural to be asleep at 5 PM. I gently extricate myself from Dan's embrace and head to the kitchen to make us some dinner. For the second time today, the smell of food wakes Dan up, and he's by my side at almost the exact second the stir fry's done cooking. He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist and gently rests his forehead against the back of my head. I rub his forearm absently as I finish up our dinner.

We're both silent as we eat. He locks our ankles together, keeping us connected under the table.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, breaking our easy silence.

"Tired, still, but alright," he says. I reach across the table and interlace the fingers of his right hand with mine. "Phil?"

"Yeah?"

"I was attacked." I flash my eyes up to meet his, heavy with anxiety and fear. I tighten my grip on his fingers. Dan sets down his fork and stands up, sliding his hand from my grasp. "But it's a bit more than that," he says. He pulls on the tie of his sweatpants and loosens them.

"What—"

"Shut up," he says softly. His pants slide down over his jutting hipbones to pool at his ankles. And I see what he's trying to show me. There's a line of dark purple bruises along his thighs. I know intuitively that they are fingerprints. Dan wasn't just attacked. He was raped.

"Dan," I gasp, standing up. "My God."

"He didn't," Dan says quickly, seeing the horror in my eyes. He pulls his pants back up to his hips and ties them back into place. "He tried by I fought him off. I gave a statement to the police and they're working on catching him." I let out a squeak of indignation and walk around the table to take him into my arms, as if holding him will erase the past. He buries his face in my neck, breathing me in. Hot tears brush against my skin as he grips more tightly onto me. I'm so angry, I can barely breathe. If I ever meet the bastard that did this to him—

"I'm scared, Phil," he mutters, his body shaking in mine. There are bigger things to think about than homicide. Dan is hurting so by extension I am hurting so badly that there is no room left in me for anger. "I'm afraid to leave the flat. I'm afraid that he's around every corner, waiting for me. I'm afraid that the police will never catch him and that I'll always be afraid. I'm terrified that I'll never get my life back," he breaks for a moment and holds me impossibly tighter. "I see him everywhere." I don't know what to say or what to do, so I just hold him. "Phil—" he takes a deep breath. "Phil. If he had—if he had done what he planned…I'm—I'm not sure I could have survived that."

"I wish I could fix you," I mutter against his ear.

"You are fixing me," he whispers. My heart squeezes and for a second I'm not sure if it has the capacity to hold the love I have for this boy.

"You are the strongest person I know, Daniel Howell," I say quietly enough that there's every chance he didn't hear me. But I can tell he did by the way he pulls me just far enough away to press a gentle kiss to my lips and whisper to me, "I get my strength from you."


	5. Chapter 5

Phil and I don't speak much about the attack. Every once in awhile, he'll ask a curious off-handed question, but I don't really mind. I can see how worried he is about me. Sometimes, when it's late and we're sitting in front of some marathon or another, I'll notice him watching me instead of the screen. Whenever I catch him, he'll lean forward to brush his lips carefully against mine before turning away. In those moments it's not necessary for him to communicate with words. I understand Phil perfectly. Every little unnecessary touch, every kiss, every extra second of sustained eye contact is another way he tells me he loves me.

Slowly but surely, the bruising fades from my face and thighs; the cut in the back of my head heals and the staples are taken out. I've started to push away some of that all consuming fear and make room for normality to fit back in. My physical wounds are healing quite nicely; it's my emotional wounds that are taking time.

I've gone back to joking around with Phil, and throwing things at his face when he's not paying attention to me and doing all of those little things that I know he only pretends to hate, and sometimes they're forced, but they're natural most of the time and whenever I do something small like that he smiles. Which is reason enough to do anything, really.

Phil and I walked back to the hospital to get my stitches removed. I kept a death grip on his hand and when we got back into the hospital, my face was pale and I was shaking, but I made it. That was the first time that I really felt I was going to be alright.

About a week after that, I get a call from the police station saying they've arrested someone and can I please come into the station to identify him. Phil and I walk there too, but this time I have determination infused into my very bones.

The police bring me alone into a room with a one way mirror. They usher in a line-up of men, and instantly I spot my attacker. There is no mistaking that face. For the first time, I understand the purpose of my fear. I understand why I had to see his face painted on my eyelids, why I had to see him every time I rounded a corner, why I couldn't sleep at night without knowing Phil is by my side. Every second I felt the tiniest ounce of terror was for this moment when I meet the eyes of the officer by my side and say, "That's him. That is the man who attacked me."

When I leave the station a mere half hour later, Phil's fingers interlocked with mine, I am not afraid.


End file.
